


Tightrope

by DidiWednesday



Series: Excursed [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidiWednesday/pseuds/DidiWednesday
Summary: As much as he hates to admit it, there's something about Warden-Commander Soufei “Just Call Me Mahariel” Mahariel that unnerves the Iron Bull...
Series: Excursed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126802
Kudos: 4





	Tightrope

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: This is technically unfinished. I don't really know where I wanted to go with this? But I wanted it out of my head, so here we are!
> 
> Minor, untagged ships: Iron Bull/Dorian and Mahariel/Zevran
> 
> Brief context: In this fic, Terys Lavellan is the Inquisitor. He was a hunter for his clan and is very flighty, unsure of himself, and very scared of magic. He's Soufei Mahariel's distant cousin. That's all you really need to know to understand the rest lmao

As much as he hates to admit it, there's something about Warden-Commander Soufei “Just Call Me Mahariel” Mahariel that unnerves the Iron Bull.

On the surface, she looks like any other Dalish elf he has previously encountered: dark skin, pale eyes, dark hair, and the grim, determined expression that all those hunted yet defiant people seem to wear.

Nearly everything about her appearance projects practicality. She has long traded in her traditional Grey Warden regalia for a sturdier set of armor crafted by the Inquisitor's own hands, no less. Her hair is always coiled into a tight bun at the back of her head, pinned safely away from flashing blades and desperate hands. Practicality. Nearly. 

Bull still saw the flashes of vanity she allows herself. When down, her hair is almost ridiculously long, ending somewhere around her knees, and she always wove a single braid before pinning the rest. A swipe of purple lip paint would always grace her lips every morning, and a single golden earring never left her right earlobe. Small indulgences in an otherwise pragmatic woman.

She pulls off some pretty incredible feats during battle, but Bull fought on Seheron. He knows the look of an experienced warrior when he sees one. 

She has a penchant for this one wild maneuver that would leave Bull gaping after her every time if he weren't in the heat of battle. She waits until as an enemy mage prepares a spell and then, the very moment that the mage releases that spell, she dives in and goes for their gut with her daggers. Despite not being a mage herself, she always seems to know how to dip and weave her body to avoid the worst damage. More than once, Bull has caught sight of a snarling smile, all sharp canines and fury, as a fireball barely glances off her armor, the caster dead before he even knew what had happened, and doesn't that just endear her, just a tiny bit, to him?

After a week of trudging up and down the Storm Coast in her company - helping the Inquisitor close rifts, chasing away Red Templars, and hunting down weird, whispering shards – Bull finally pinpoints what he makes him so uncomfortable: Her face. 

\---------------------

When he first found out that the Inquisitor was related to the Hero of Ferelden and that she was coming to aid them at his request, Bull was definitely intrigued. The Hero of Ferelden united a country on the brink of civil war, defeated a fucking archdemon, and most incredibly, lived to tell the tale of it all herself! While Bull wasn't the type to write it all off as a fluke, he was still interested in seeing the kind of person who would be able to do all those things within a single year. 

Turns out, all of Warden-Commander Soufei “Just Call Me Mahariel” Mahariel could be boiled down to three defining character traits.

One: A bleak but realistic view of what the world is and her place within it.

When she arrived at Skyhold, everyone immediately offered her the position of inquisitor. In fact, Terys was the one who ordered the throne room cleared that they might “have a moment to counsel with the Hero of Ferelden.” Although they had just announced him formally mere moments ago, Terys was pushing the sword Cassandra had given him into Mahariel's hands, insisting that she would be the better fit. She wrapped one hand around the hand he had on the pommel and then threw her head back and laughed until the din of the advisors and various companions finally died down. “I am a grey warden,” she had said, teeth bared in a grim smile. “I did one heroic thing for Ferelden ten years ago. Even now, my order has fallen into suspicion.” She pushed the sword back into Terys' arms though her hand did not leave his. “Let someone else have a turn at saving the world. Someone who's already doing more work than I ever did.” The mark in Terys' hand glowed brighter for a moment as if it knew it was being spoken of. Mahariel's hand squeezed his once before she took a step back and kneeled before him with one arm crossing her chest. “This time, I will take the supporting role.”

Two: A steadfast, unrelenting determination to do what is right.

A group of Grey Wardens stood before them. Although they were on their feet, their body language gave the impression of huddling, shoulders turned inward, eyes downcast, hands trembling. They had just witnessed their brothers-in-arms killing each other, summoning demons, and then falling under the control of a Tevinter mage. Were they to follow the original orders of Warden-Commander Clarel? Or were they to follow Warden-Commander Mahariel's call to stand against the kinslayers? Some of their number had dark veins and glassy eyes, a sure sign of the Blight disease. Was the Calling they all heard real or not? Even Mahariel had admitted that she was hearing and resisting the song at that very moment. 

Terys turned away from the wardens, eyes silently imploring Mahariel to action. Instead of pushing Terys to lead as she had been doing, Mahariel stepped forward. She held her blades loosely in her hands. Her armor and weapons were still covered in blood and the primordial ooze that demons held in their bodies. She caught and held the gaze of all the wardens for a moment before speaking. “We will all die some day,” she said, her tone flat and factual. “Whether it be by disease, by darkspawn or by bandits. But this...” Her hand fluttered, gesturing to the sacrificed wardens. “'In death, sacrifice.' But this is not the sacrifice we are meant to make. This war against unawakened archdemons is not the one we are meant to wage.” They could hear her throat click as she swallowed, and her voice trembled as she spoke her next words. “In peace, we have failed to be vigilant.” Her eyes dipped briefly before rising up once more, the fire in her burning more fiercely than ever. She planted her feet solidly apart and clasped her hands and weapons together, blades pointed heavenward in a militaristic salute. “We will all die some day. It does not matter when. It matters how.”

They bury the wardens who had been slain. They burn the bodies of those that had done the slaying. Mahariel strips them of their armor before the burning and refuses to call them wardens the whole while. They return to Skyhold to regroup and to plan. 

The wardens follow.

And three: A subtle, almost insidious charisma.

The one thing that surprised the Bull was how affectionate the Hero of Ferelden could be. Dorian often said that a face like his deserved to be carved in marble, and most of the time, Mahariel's face truly appeared to be made of the stuff. She seemed to look upon everything, from scouting reports to beautiful, anonymous bouquets, with the same unchanging expression.

And yet.

During their brief moments of respite at Skyhold, Mahariel was often seen in the company of her fellow Fifth Blight veterans. She was the only person who could coax the Inquisition's spymaster into leaving her tower of crows and spies. The guards have yet to become used to seeing the Hero of Ferelden and Sister Nightingale stroll around the fort, arms entwined and heads bent together like gossiping school girls. Based on the laughter they often shared and the knowing glances they sometimes shot at passers-by, perhaps “gossiping” was an accurate descriptor for their liaisons together.

Other days, she could be found in the gardens in the company of the equally beautiful and equally enigmatic Morrigan. Those visits were spent in one of two very different but equally intriguing ways. Sometimes, the two women would sit close together on a bench, legs crossed, bodies turned inward. Unlike the walks with Leliana, no attention was paid to the world around them, other than sharp glares to ensure no one wandered too close or lingered too long near the pair. It wasn't uncommon to see the witch conjure dark lights between her fingertips which would then leap to the warden's willing, outstretched hand. Some onlookers even began to whisper that perhaps the Hero of Ferelden was a mage all along, thus allowing her to survive her slaying of the archdemon. It definitely made the Inquisitor's more... devout followers uncomfortable, seeing an apostate and a well-known mage-supporter openly wielding magic like that, especially when the women's only response to complaints were to stare the complainant down until they walked away. Mother Giselle refused to leave the garden entirely, but she quickly learned to retreat to a particular corner when she saw the elvhen woman passing by.

(She wasn't by the way. The Iron Bull had Dalish check. And Dorian. “There is as much magic in her as there is water in a piece of rock,” he had said as he absently pet at Bull's chest. Bull, for his part, just grunted an affirmation, too concentrated in bathing in the afterglow as it were. At least until Dorian's fingers turned wicked and pinched a nipple. “I would have told you sooner if someone hadn't distracted me.” Bull groaned then chuckled, grabbing the offending hand, and well... Distractions.)


End file.
